


You And I Were Made For This

by Tyrion_Lannister



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Fluff, Insomnia, M/M, vague mentions of alcoholism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-15
Updated: 2013-08-15
Packaged: 2017-12-23 13:15:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/926887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyrion_Lannister/pseuds/Tyrion_Lannister
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire finds it hard to sleep when Enjolras isn't there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You And I Were Made For This

Once he began sleeping next to Enjolras, Grantaire suddenly couldn’t even begin to fathom how he had ever managed to sleep alone.

The first time they had crashed into bed together had been explosive, hands grabbing at clothes, tearing fabric and ripping off buttons. It was wonderful, the culmination of years of sexual tension and repressed emotion, and Grantaire had struggled to stop himself from sobbing his gratitude into Enjolras’s shoulder as they rocked together, held fast in each other’s tight embrace.

What happened afterwards, though, that was the memory Grantaire held most dear; the feel of Enjolras’s lustrous curls tickling his nose as they drifted off to sleep, curled almost uncomfortably close under the too-thin, too-small blanket, Grantaire’s arm wrapped firmly around Enjolras’s waist and Enjolras’s feet tucked neatly in between his own. When they woke up in the morning, Enjolras’s head resting gently on Grantaire’s broad chest,  one slender hand above his heart as though to protect it from the world, Grantaire was happier than he could ever remember being.

Soon enough, Enjolras’s presence next to him in bed, the indent of his head on Grantaire’s pillow, became indispensable; Grantaire couldn’t sleep at all without the other man there to steal the covers and mutter anxiously in his sleep, his forehead furrowed in an adorable frown. On the nights when Enjolras stayed at his own apartment to work late, Grantaire often stayed up well into the early hours, drinking vodka straight from the bottle and crudely painting whatever came to mind, only to rip it up as the sun rose and collapse on the sofa until unconsciousness finally took him.

It was inevitable, then, that when they fought, Grantaire was a mess.

* * * * *

This time it had been bad, the tensions building up gradually as one of Enjolras’s protests drew nearer and nearer. He had begun staying at Combeferre’s overnight for impromptu planning sessions, spending his days with Courfeyrac on the other side of town. More often than not, Grantaire’s calls would be met with the impassive beep of Enjolras’s voicemail, the professional sounding ‘Hi, you’ve reached Enjolras, please leave a message’ ringing in his ears long after he’d disconnected. When they did speak, Enjolras was emotionally unavailable, murmuring monosyllabic responses and barely making an effort to mask his irritation at being interrupted.

Grantaire _tried_ , he really did, knowing how much Enjolras needed space in times like these, knowing it wasn’t a reflection on him when Enjolras became distant and Grantaire’s bed remained empty as the nights grew colder, but he could only take so much, and eventually, in the third week of crushing loneliness, his endurance broke.

“Do you even care at _all_ , Enjolras?”

Enjolras had looked up from his papers, the customary scowl that Grantaire was so used to seeing already in place as he pushed his hair off his shoulders with an exasperated sigh. “Grantaire, what are you –”

“No, don’t you _dare_ do that, Enjolras, you know exactly what I’m talking about.” Grantaire’s voice was shaky, the result of his vain effort to suppress the mix of anger and sadness and terrible, bone-chilling fear swirling around in his gut. “I know you’re busy, but every time I’ve tried to talk to you recently you’ve just brushed me off like, I dunno, I’m an _inconvenience_ to you.”

The frown had disappeared from Enjolras’s face as he looked up at Grantaire, bewilderment and incomprehension evident in his eyes. “Of course I care, you don’t get it, Grantaire, this isn’t about you!”

“Nothing ever is though, is it?” Grantaire had almost shouted the words, his insecurities tumbling over each other in his brain as the familiar feelings of anxiety, of _inadequacy_ , rose up, threatening to take over. He’d balled his hands into tight fists, trying to focus on the sharp sting of his nails digging into the flesh of his palms, anything to avoid looking at Enjolras where he sat, perplexed, among mountains of files, reading glasses pushed up into his hair. “I can’t do this, Enjolras, I’m sorry. I need a fucking drink.”

Enjolras’s face, previously upturned and open, had shut down completely at Grantaire’s last words, his lips thinning into a narrow line. He’d glanced down at his hands dismissively, his expression shooting arrows of pain through Grantaire’s chest. “Right. You go do that, then.”

He hadn’t looked up at all in the time it took Grantaire to cross the room and leave, slamming the door shut behind him.

* * * * *

That night, Grantaire doesn’t come home until past midnight, swaying drunkenly outside his front door as he tries to see through the fuzziness clouding his vision long enough to fit the right key in the lock. As the door swings open, he stumbles over the threshold, a hopeful little smile appearing on his face, half-expecting Enjolras to be slung over the battered sofa despite the severity of their argument. His mind had constructed a pleasant fantasy on his walk back from the bar; _Enjolras waiting at home, inviting him into a warm and friendly apartment with a smile, before leading him to bed, apologising for his recent distraction while holding Grantaire close and dropping loving kisses against his shoulders_.

The living room is empty and dark, revealing the fantasy for the fallacy it is, and Grantaire’s smile falters, uncertain, as he steps into the room. Still, he does his best to suppress the feeling of sick disappointment coiling in the pit of his belly and meanders towards the bedroom. “Enjolras?”

The ticking of the clock above the mantelpiece seems unnaturally loud in the ensuing silence.

“Enjolras, are you here?”

Nothing. Grantaire reaches the bedroom, his face falling as he peers in. The bed is empty, unwelcoming, rumpled where Grantaire hadn’t bothered straightening the sheets and smelling slightly of alcohol and stale sweat.

He lets out a heavy sigh, tossing his coat and bag to the floor before dropping down on his tangled sheets, not bothering to undress before curling into a ball in the centre of the bed. He feels tears spring to his eyes, hot and unwanted, as he presses Enjolras’s pillow to his face, inhaling deeply; Enjolras has been so distant over the course of the last few weeks that no trace of him remains in the room, his scent gone from the pillow just as, it seemed, the man himself is gone from Grantaire’s life.

Grantaire falls asleep like this, in the end, curled around Enjolras’s pillow, like a child unwilling to relinquish a beloved teddy bear even long after the illusion of companionship has faded.

* * * * *

The next morning, he wakes up in the same position, alone. His head is pounding as he squints at the clock, raising a hand to protect his eyes against the light streaming in through the window.

Falling back with a huff, he reaches for his phone, lying inert on the bedside table. Clicking it on, he skims through his inbox, hoping for a message from Enjolras. There are new texts from Combeferre and Jehan, but that’s it, and he feels the familiar sting of disappointment as he rolls off the bed and heads towards the shower.

When he goes to bed, late that night, there is still no text, and he still sleeps alone on sheets that remind him of his departed lover.

* * * * *

Three days later, Grantaire is sitting at home alone, watching mindless repeats of some reality show, and decidedly ignoring his phone where it lies just out of reach in the peripheries of his vision. It is the night before Enjolras’s protest, and despite visits from Courfeyrac and Cosette, he still hasn’t heard from Enjolras himself. He has given up on trying to sleep, lying back on the sofa with a bottle of whiskey as the minutes roll into hours and the moon makes its slow rotation outside his living room window.

He is broken, exhausted and lonely, and on top of all that, worried for his friends, worried for _Enjolras_. The protest tomorrow looks like it’ll be big, and Enjolras has a tendency to attract trouble at events like this; despite Grantaire’s intense focus on the television screen, images of Enjolras on the floor, bruised and bloody, continue to assail and torment him. _What if he gets arrested again? What if he gets hurt, seriously hurt, and I never got to tell him how sorry I am, how much he means to me?_

Grantaire glances at his phone again, emotions in turmoil.  Eventually, with a heavy sigh, he gives in, leaning over to scoop it up off the coffee table. He dials from memory with shaking fingers, then, anxiously pressing the phone to his ear, he waits.

_Riiiing._

_Riiiing._

_Riiiing._

“Come on, Enjolras, please, just pick up the damn phone…” Grantaire gnaws on his lower lip nervously as he waits, drumming his fingers against the denim of his jeans where it stretches across his thighs.

“Hi, you’ve reached Enjolras, please lea –”

“Fuck!” Grantaire cuts off Enjolras’s painfully polite voicemail with a harsh jab of his finger, then, with another furious expletive, hurls his phone at the wall, sitting back heavily when it shatters and falls to the floor. “ _Fuck, Enjolras_.” It’s a plea, a small broken noise, forcing its way out from the wounded space deep inside his chest.

Leaning forwards, he picks up his glass, and pours himself another drink.

* * * * *

Two hours later, when the knock sounds, Grantaire almost doesn’t hear it, his eyes drooping shut as he dwells in his melancholy haze. The TV has long since silenced itself, the screen blank aside from a small notice informing him when the channel will be back on air.

The knock comes again, louder this time, and Grantaire finally takes notice.

With a grunt, he hauls himself off the sofa, running a hand through his dishevelled hair as he staggers towards the door, his tiredness seeming to radiate from deep inside his bones. “Alright, I’m coming.”

He pulls the door open gracelessly, ready to bark at whoever’s there for turning up at whatever ungodly time it is, but the words die in his throat. “…Enjolras?”

If Grantaire looks tired, Enjolras looks _wrecked_. The bags under his eyes look like bruises, his face gaunt, the sharpness of his cheekbones even more noticeable than usual. Even his hair seems to have lost its customary shine. As Grantaire watches, Enjolras sways on the spot, one hand coming up to prop himself against the doorframe.

“Grantaire… ‘M sorry, I fucked up…”

Grantaire shakes his head, his own tiredness forgotten as he hurriedly draws Enjolras into the apartment, keeping a reassuring hand safe on his elbow. “No, Enjolras, it’s ok, don’t worry about it.”

“It was my _fault_.” Enjolras wrenches himself away, looking much younger than his twenty-two years in the soft lamplight, an agonised expression on his exhausted face. “I’m sorry, I really am, I know I get too involved in my work sometimes, but I never mean to neglect you, R, I mean it.”

Grantaire smiles, gentle and sad. “It’s fine, Enjolras.”

And somehow it is, the bitterness and anger dissipating along with the unhappy loneliness of the last few weeks. “It’s all over tomorrow, for a while, anyway. You look so tired…” He lifts his hand, tucking a long strand of Enjolras’s hair behind his ear as he speaks, and Enjolras lets his eyes fall shut, nuzzling almost involuntarily into the gesture.

“Yeah, I haven’t been sleeping.” He opens his eyes, sheepishly meeting Grantaire’s own. “And when I tried, I, um. Couldn’t. Not without you there.”

Something inside Grantaire breaks at Enjolras’s words, only to rebuild itself, stronger and more trusting, growing more confident in the face of the other man’s admission. He pulls Enjolras close, burying his face in his hair and inhaling deeply. “Me too, God, I missed you…”

“Will you take me back?”

Grantaire pulls back slightly, eyes widening in surprise. “What?”

“Please, Grantaire, I’m _useless_ without you, I don’t know what I’d do if you left me for good, I promise to try harder –” The panic is evident in Enjolras’s voice, as weary as he is, the words tumbling over each other in their haste to be heard and accepted.

“Enjolras, I’m not going anywhere, don’t you ever doubt that.” And it’s true; while Grantaire isn’t certain of much, he knows that wherever Enjolras goes, he must undoubtedly follow, to the ends of the earth and back again.

At his words, Enjolras sags against him, relief colouring his every movement. Grantaire wraps his arms around him tightly, savouring the feeling of their hearts beating together through their clothes. They stay like that for another minute, rocking gently on the spot, drowning in the soft sound of each other’s breathing, before Enjolras unwinds Grantaire’s arms from his back and motions towards the bedroom. “Come on, then.”

Grantaire quirks his lips in a small grin, letting Enjolras lead him by the hand to his own bedroom. He is, without a doubt, looking forward to getting reacquainted with Enjolras’s body, its soft dips and narrow curves, and the way he moans when he’s touched in a certain way, but for now, all he wants is to hold and be held, limbs wrapped together so tightly that no force on earth could tear them apart.

They take time undressing one another, interrupting the process to bestow small, loving kisses on whichever new expanse of flesh is revealed, but Grantaire ignores the hot rush of arousal coiling in his belly. Instead, he just pulls Enjolras into his chest, bodies fitting as closely together as they can physically manage, the touch of skin on skin igniting a blaze of fierce, possessive contentment inside his ribcage. It takes them no time to fall asleep like that, a strange sense of peace falling back into place between them as they drift into darkness.

Grantaire’s last thought, as he sleepily rubs a comforting line across Enjolras’s delicate shoulder blades, is the warm knowledge that come what may, they will always be alright in the end, secure in the safety of each other’s arms.

**Author's Note:**

> Based off a tumblr headcanon (I am orestesgayandpyladesalsogay, come and say hi!)
> 
>  
> 
> Written in about an hour and a half & unbeta'd, so I'm sorry if there are any glaring mistakes.


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